The priests in Wallace’s army not only exercised the Levitical but the good Samaritan’s functions, and they soon obeyed the young knight3’s summons to dress the wounds of Montgomery.
Messengers, meanwhile, arrived from Wallace, acquainting his chieftains in Stirling with the surrender of De Warenne’s army. Hence no surprise was created in the breast of the wounded earl when he saw his commander enter the palace as the prisoner of the illustrious Scot.
Montgomery held out his hand to the lord warden5 in silence, and with a flushed cheek.
“Blush not, my noble friend!” cried De Warenne; “these wounds speak more eloquently6 than a thousand tongues, the gallantry with which you maintained the sword that fate compelled you to surrender. But I, without a scratch, how can I meet the unconquered Edward? And yet it was not for myself I feared: my brave and confiding8 soldiers were in all my thoughts; for I saw it was not to meet an army I led them, but against a whirlwind, a storm of war, with which no strength that I commanded could contend.”
While the English generals thus conversed9, Edwin’s impatient heart yearned10 to be again at the side of Wallace; and gladly resigning the charge of his noble prisoner to Sir Alexander Ramsay, as soon as he observed a cessation in the conversation of the two earls, he drew near Montgomery to take his leave.
“Farewell, till we meet again!” said the young earl, pressing his hand; “you have been a young brother rather than an enemy, to me.”
“Because,” returned Edwin, “I follow the example of my general, who would willingly be the friend of all mankind.”
Warenne looked at him with surprise: “And who are you, who, in that stripling form, utters gallant7 sentiments which might grace the maturest years?”
With a sweet dignity, Edwin replied, “I am Edwin Ruthven, the adopted brother of Sir William Wallace.”
“And the son of him,” asked De Warenne, “who, with Sir William Wallace, was the first to mount Dumbarton walls?”
At these words the cheeks of Edwin were suffused11 with a more animated12 bloom. At the moment when his courage was distinguished13 on the heights of Dumbarton, by the vowed14 friendship of Wallace, he had found himself beloved by the bravest and most amiable15 of beings; and in his light he felt both warmth and brightness; but this question of De Warenne, conveyed to him that he had found fame himself; that he was there publicly acknowledged to be an object not unworthy of being called the brother of Sir William Wallace!-and, casting down his eyes, beaming with exultation17, from the fixed18 gaze of De Warenne, he answered, “I am that happy Ruthven, who had the honor to mount Dumbarton Rock by the side of my general; and from his hand there received the stroke of knighthood.”
De Warenne rose, much agitated19: “If such be the boys of Scotland need we wonder, when the spirit of resistance is roused in the nation, that our strength should wither20 before its men?”
“At least,” said Montgomery, whose admiration21 of what passed seemed to reanimate his languid faculties22, “it deprives defeat of its sting, when we are conscious we yielded to power that was irresistible23. But, my lord,” added he, “if the courage of this youth amazes you, what will you say ought to be the fate of this country? what to be the crown of Sir William Wallace’s career, when you know the chain of brave hearts by which he is surrounded? Even tender woman loses the weakness of her sex when she belongs to him.” Earl de Warenne, surprised at the energy with which he spoke24, looked at him with an expression that told him so. “Yes,” continued he, “I witnessed the heroism25 of Lady Wallace, when she defended the character of her husband in the midst of an armed host, and preserved the secret of his retreat inviolate26. I saw that loveliest of women, whom the dastard27 Heselrigge slew28.”
“Disgrace to knighthood!” cried Edwin, with indignant vehemence29; “if you were a spectator of that bloody30 deed, retire from this house; go to Cambus–Kenneth — anywhere; but leave this city before the injured Wallace arrives; blast not his eyes with a second sight of one who could have beheld31 his wife murdered.”
Every eye was now fixed on the commanding figure of the young Edwin, who stood with the determination of being obeyed breathing in every look. De Warenne then at once saw the possibility of so gentle a creature being transformed into the soul of enterprise, into the fearless and effective soldier.
Lord Montgomery held out his hand to Edwin. “By this right arm, I swear, noble youth, that had I been on the spot when Heselrigge, lifted his sword against the breast of Lady Wallace, I would have sheathed32 my sword in his. It was before then that I saw that matchless woman; and offended with my want of severity in the scrutiny33 I had made at Ellerslie for its chief. Heselrigge sent me back to Ayr. Arnuf quarreled with me there, on the same subject; and I immediately retired35 in disgust to England.”
“Then how? you ought to be Sir Gilbert Hambledon?” replied Edwin; “but whoever you are, as you were kind to the Lady Marion, I cannot but regret my late hasty charge; and for which I beseech36 your pardon.”
Montgomery took his hand, and pressed it. “Generous Ruthven, your warmth is too honorable to need forgiveness. I am that Sir Gilbert Hambledon; and had I remained so, I should not now be in Scotland. But in my first interview with the Prince of Wales, after my accession to the Earldom of Montgomery, his highness told me, it had been rumored37 from Scotland that I was disloyal in my heart to my king. ‘And to prove the falsehood of such calumniators,’ continued the prince, ‘I appoint you second in command there to the Earl de Warenne.’ To have refused to fight against Sir William Wallace, would have been to have accused myself of treason. And while I respected the husband of the murdered Lady Marion, I yet condemned38 him as an insurgent39; and with the same spirit you follow him in the field, I obeyed the commands of my sovereign.”
“Lord Montgomery,” returned Edwin, “I am rejoiced to see one who proves to me what my general, wronged as he has been, yet always inculcates-that all the Southrons are not base and cruel! When he knows who is indeed his prisoner, what recollections will it awaken40! But till you and he again meet, I shall not intimate to him the melancholy41 satisfaction he is to enjoy, for, with the remembrances it will arouse, your presence must bring the antidote42.”
The brave youth then telling Ramsay in what parts of the palace the rest of the lords were to be lodged, with recovered composure descended43 to the courtyard, to take horse for Tor Wood. He was galloping44 along, under the bright light of the moon, when he heard a squadron on full speed approaching, and presently Murray appeared at its head. “Hurrah, Edwin!” cried he; “well met! We are come to demand the instant surrender of the citadel45. Hilton’s division has surrendered!”
The two barons46 had indeed come up about half an hour after Earl de Warenne’s division was discomfited47. Sir William Wallace had sent forward to the advancing enemy two heralds48, bearing the colors De Valence and Montgomery, with the captive banner of De Warenne, and requiring the present division to lay down its army also. The sight of these standards was sufficient to assure Hilton there was no deceit in the embassy. The nature of his position precluded49 retreat; and not seeing any reason for ten thousand men disputing the day with a power to whom fifty thousand had just surrendered, he and his compeer, with the reluctance50 of veterans, embraced the terms of surrender.
The instant Hilton put his argent banner33 into the victor’s hand, Wallace knew that the castle must now be his; he had discomfited all who could have maintained it against him. Impatient to apprise51 Lord Mar2 and his family of their safety, he dispatched Murray with a considerable escort to demand its surrender.
33 The arms of Hilton are, argent, two bars azure52. The charge on those of Blenkinsopp are three wheat-sheaves; crest53, a lion rampant54, grasping a rose. The ruins of the patrimonial55 castles of these two ancient barons are still to be seen in the north of England. The author’s revered56 mother was a descendant from the latter venerable name, united with that of the brave and erudite race of Adamson, of further north.
Murray gladly obeyed, and now, accompanied by Edwin, with the standards of Cressingham and De Warenne trailing in the dust, he arrived before the castle, and summoned the lieutenant57 to the walls. But that officer, well aware of what was going to happen, feared to appear. From the battlements of the keep he had seen the dreadful conflict on the banks of the Forth58-he had seen the thousands of De Warenne pass before the conqueror59. To punish his treachery, in not only having suffered Cressingham to steal out under the armistice60, but upholding also the breaking of his word to surrender at sunset, the terrified officer believed that Wallace was now come to put the whole garrison61 to the sword.
At the first sight of Murray’s approaching squadron, the lieutenant hurried to Lord Mar, to offer him immediate34 liberty if he would go forth to Wallace and treat with him to spare the lives of the garrison. Closed up in a solitary62 dungeon63, the earl knew naught64 of what was occurring without; and when the Southron entered, he expected it was to lead him again to the death which had been twice averted65. But the pale and trembling lieutenant had no sooner spoken the first word than Mar discerned it was a suppliant66, not an executioner, he saw before him, and he was even promising67 that clemency68 from Wallace, which he knew dwelt in his heart, when Murray’s trumpet69 sounded.
The lieutenant started, horror-struck. “It is now too late! We have not made the first overture70, and there sounds the death-bell of this garrison! I saved your life, earl!” cried he, imploringly71, to Lord Mar; “when the enraged72 Cressingham commanded me to pull the cord which would have launched you into eternity73. I disobeyed him! For my sake, then, preserve this garrison, and accompany me to the ramparts.”
The chains were immediately knocked off the limbs of Lord Mar, and the lieutenant presenting him with a sword, they appeared together on the battlements. As the declining moon shone on their backs, Murray did not discern that it was his uncle who mounted the walls; but calling to him in a voice which declared there was no appeal, pointed74 to the humbled75 colors of Edward, and demanded the instant surrender of the citadel.
“Let it be, then with the pledge of Sir William Wallace’s mercy?” cried the venerable earl.
“With every pledge, Lord Mar,” returned Murray, now joyfully76 recognizing his uncle, “which you think safe to give.”
“Then the keys of the citadel are yours,” cried the lieutenant; “I only ask the lives of my garrison.”
This was granted, and immediately preparations were made for the admission of the Scots. As the enraptured77 Edwin heard the heavy chains of the portcullis drawn78 up, and the massy bolts of the huge doors grating in their guards, he thought of his mother’s liberty, of his father’s joy, in pressing her again in his arms; and hastening to the tower where Lord Ruthven held watch over the now sleeping De Valance, he told him all that had happened. “Go, my father,” added he; “enter with Murray, and be the first to open the prison doors of my mother.”
Lord Ruthven embraced his son. “My dear Edwin! this sacrifice to my feelings is worthy16 of you. But I have a duty to perform, superior even to the tenderest private ones. I am planted hereby my commander; and shall I quit my station, for any gratification, till he gives me leave? No, my son! Be you my representative to your mother; and while my example teaches you, above all earthly considerations, to obey your honor, those tender embraces will show her what I sacrifice to duty.”
Edwin no longer urged his father, and leaving his apartment, flew to the gate of the inner ballium. It was open; and Murray already stood on the platform before the keep, receiving the keys to the garrison.
“Blessed sight!” cried the earl, to his nephew. “When I put the banner of Mar into your unpracticed hand, little could I expect that, in the course of four months, I should see my brave Andrew receive the keys of proud Stirling from its commander!”
Murray smiled, while his plumed79 head bowed gratefully to his uncle, and turning to the lieutenant, “Now,” said he, “lead me to the Ladies Mar and Ruthven that I may assure them they are free.”
The gates of the keep were now unclosed, and the lieutenant conducted his victors along a gloomy passage, to a low door, studded with knobs of iron. As he drew the bolt, he whispered to Lord Mar, “These severities are the hard policy of Governor Cressingham.”
He pushed the door slowly open, and discovered a small, miserable80 cell-its walls, of rugged81 stone, having no other covering than the incrustations which time, and many a dripping winter, had strewn over their vaulted82 service. On the ground, on a pallet of straw, lay a female figure in a profound sleep. But the light which the lieutenant held, streaming full upon the uncurtained slumberer83, she started, and, with a shriek84 of terror at the sight of so many armed men, discovered the pallid85 features of the Countess of Mar. With an anguish86 which hardly the freedom he was going to bestow87 could ameliorate, the earl rushed forward, and, throwing himself beside her, caught her in his arms.
“Are we, then, to die?” cried she, in a voice of horror. “Has Wallace abandoned us? Are we to perish? Heartless-heartless man!”
Overcome by his emotions, the earl could only strain her to his breast in speechless agitation88. Edwin saw a picture of his mother’s sufferings, in the present distraction89 of the countess; and he felt his powers of utterance90 locked up; but Lord Andrew, whose ever-light heart was gay the moment he was no longer unhappy, jocosely91 answered, “My fair aunt, there are many hearts to die by your eyes before that day! and, meanwhile, I come from Sir William Wallace-to set you free!”
The name of Wallace, and the intimation that he had sent to set her free, drove every former thought of death and misery92 from her mind; again the ambrosial93 gales94 of love seemed to breathe around her-she saw not her prison walls; she felt herself again in his presence; and in a blissful trance, rather endured than participated in the warm congratulations of her husband on their mutual95 safety.
Edwin and Murray turned to follow the lieutenant, who, preceding them, stopped at the end of the gallery. “Here,” said he, “is Lady Ruthven’s habitation; and-alas! not better than the countess’.” While he spoke, he threw open the door, and discovered its sad inmate96 also asleep. But when the glad voice of her son pierced her ear-when his fond embraces clung to her bosom97, her surprise and emotions were almost insupportable. Hardly crediting her senses, that he whom she had believed was safe in the cloisters98 of St. Colomba, could be within the dangerous walls of Stirling; that it was his mailed breast that pressed against her bosom; that it was his voice she heard exclaiming, “Mother, we come to give you freedom!” all appeared to her like a dream of madness.
She listened, she felt him, she found her cheek wet with his rapturous tears. “Am I in my right mind?” cried she, looking at him with a fearful, yet overjoyed countenance99; “am I not mad? Oh! tell me,” cried she, turning to Murray, and the lieutenant, “is this my son that I see, or has terror turned my brain?”
“It is indeed your son, your Edwin, my very self,” returned he, alarmed at the expression of her voice and countenance. Murray gently advanced, and kneeling down by her, respectfully took her hand. “He speaks truth, my dear madam. It is your son Edwin. He left his convent, to be a volunteer with Sir William Wallace. He has covered himself with honor on the walls of Dumbarton; and here also a sharer in his leader’s victories, he is come to set you free.”
At this explanation, which, being given in the sober language of reason, Lady Ruthven believed, she gave way to the full happiness of her soul, and falling on the neck of her son, embraced him with a flood of tears: “And thy father, Edwin, where is he? Did not the noble Wallace rescue him from Ayr?”
“He did, and he is here.” Edwin then repeated to his mother the affectionate message of his father, and the particulars of his release. Perceiving how happily they were engaged, Murray, now with a flutter in his own bosom, rose from his knees, and requested the lieutenant to conduct him to Lady Helen Mar.
His guide led the way by a winding100 staircase into a stone gallery, where letting Lord Andrew into a spacious101 apartment, divided in the midst by a vast screen of carved cedar-wood, he pointed to a curtained entrance. “In that chamber102,” said he, “lodges the Lady Helen.”
“Ah, my poor cousin,” exclaimed Murray; “though she seems not to have tasted the hardships of her parents, she has shared their misery, I do not doubt.” While he spoke, the lieutenant bowed in silence, and Murray entered alone. The chamber was magnificent, and illumined by a lamp which hung from the ceiling. He cautiously approached the bed, fearing too hastily to disturb her, and gently pulling aside the curtains, beheld vacancy103. An exclamation104 of alarm had almost escaped him, when observing a half-open door at the other side of the apartment, he drew toward it, and there beheld his cousin, with her back to him, kneeling before a crucifix. She spoke not, but the fervor105 of her action manifested how earnestly she prayed. He moved behind her, but she heard him not; her whole soul was absorbed in the success of her petition; and at last raising her clasped hands in a paroxysm of emotion, she exclaimed,-“If that trumpet sounded the victory of the Scots, then, Power of Goodness! receive thy servant’s thanks. But if De Warenne have conquered, where De Valence has failed; if all whom I love be lost to me here, take me then to thyself, and let my freed spirit fly to their embraces in heaven!”
“Ay, and on earth too, thou blessed angel!” cried Murray, throwing himself toward her. She started from her knees, and with such a cry as the widow of Sarepta uttered when she embraced her son from the dead, Helen threw herself on the bosom of her cousin, and closed her eyes in a blissful swoon-for even while every outward sense seemed fled, the impression of joy played about her heart; and the animated throbbings of Murray’s breast, while he pressed her in his arms, at last aroused her to recollection. Her glistening106 and uplifted eyes told all the happiness, all the gratitude107 of her soul.
“My father? All are safe?” demanded she.
“All, my best beloved!” answered Murray, forgetting in his powerful emotions of his heart, that what he felt, and what he uttered, were beyond even a cousin’s limits: “My uncle, the countess, Lord and Lady Ruthven-all are safe.”
“And Sir William Wallace?” cried she; “you do not mention him. I hope no ill-”
“He is conqueror here!” interrupted Murray. “He has subdued108 every obstacle between Berwick and Stirling; and he has sent me hither to set you and the rest of the dear prisoners free.”
Helen’s heart throbbed109 with a new tumult110 as he spoke. She longed to ask whether the unknown knight from whom she had parted in the hermit’s cell, had ever joined Sir William Wallace. She yearned to know that he yet lived. At the thought of the probability of his having fallen in some of these desperate conflicts, her soul seemed to gasp111 for existence; and dropping her head on her cousin’s shoulder, “Tell me, Andrew,” said she, and there she paused, with an emotion for which she could not account to herself.
“Of what would my sweet cousin inquire?” asked Murray, partaking her agitation.
“Nothing particular,” said she, covered with blushes; “but did you fight alone in these battles? Did no other knight but Sir William Wallace?”
“Many, dearest Helen,” returned Murray, enraptured at a solicitude112 which he appropriated to himself. “Many knights113 joined our arms. All fought in a manner worthy of their leader, and thanks to Heaven, none have fallen.”
“Thanks, indeed,” cried Helen; and with a hope she dared hardly whisper to herself, of seeing the unknown knight in the gallant train of the conqueror, she falteringly114 said, “Now, Andrew, lead me to my father.”
Murray would perhaps have required a second bidding, had not Lord Mar, impatient to see his daughter, appeared with the countess at the door of the apartment. Hastening toward them, she fell on the bosom of her father; and while she bathed his face and hands with her glad tears, he, too, wept, and mingled115 blessings116 with his caresses117. No coldness here met his paternal118 heart: no distracting confusions tore her from his arms; no averted looks, by turns, alarmed and chilled the bosom of tenderness. All was innocence119 and duty in Helen’s breast; and every ingenuous120 action showed its affection and its joy. The estranged121 heart of Lady Mar had closed against him; and though he suspected not its wanderings, he felt the unutterable difference between the warm transports of his daughter and the frigid122 gratulations forced from the lips of his wife.
Lady Mar gazed with a weird123 frown on the lovely form of Helen, as she wound her exquisitely124 turned arms round the earl in filial tenderness. Her bosom, heaving in the snowy whiteness of virgin125 purity; her face, radiant with the softest blooms of youth; all seemed to frame an object which malignant126 fiends had conjured127 up to blast her stepdame’s hope. “Wallace will behold128 these charms!” cried her distracted spirit to herself, “and then, where am I?”
While her thoughts thus followed each other, she unconsciously darted129 looks on Helen, which, if an evil eye had any bewitching power, would have withered130 all her beauties. At one of these portentous131 moments, the glad eyes of Helen met her glance. She started with horror. It made her remember how she had been betrayed, and all that she had suffered from Soulis. But she could not forget that she had also been rescued; and with that blessed recollection, the image of her preserver rose before her. At this gentle idea, her alarmed countenance took a softer expression; and, tenderly sighing, she turned to her father’s question of “How she came to be with Lady Ruthven, when he had been taught by Lord Andrew to believe her safe at St. Fillan’s?”
“Yes,” cried Murray, throwing herself on a seat beside her, “I found in your letter to Sir William Wallace, that you had been betrayed from your asylum132 by some traitor133 Scot; and but for the fullness of my joy at our present meeting, I should have inquired the name of the villian!”
Lady Mar felt a deadly sickness at her heart, on hearing that Sir William Wallace was already so far acquainted with her daughter as to have received a letter from her; and in amazed despair, she prepared to listen to what she expected would bring a death-stroke to her hopes. They had met-but how?-where? They wrote to each other. Then, far indeed had proceeded that communication of hearts, which was now the aim of her life-and she was undone134! Helen glanced at the face of Lady mar, and observing its changes, regarded them as corroborations of her having been the betrayer. “If conscience disturbs you thus,” thought Helen, “let it rend4 your heart, and perhaps remorse135 may follow!”
As the tide of success seemed so full for the patriot136 Scots, Helen no longer feared that her cousin would rashly seek a precarious137 vengeance138 on the traitor Soulis, when he might probably soon have an opportunity of making it certain at the head of an army. She therefore commenced her narrative139 from the time of Murray’s leaving her at the priory, and continued it to the hour in which she had met her father, a prisoner in the streets of Stirling. As she proceeded, the indignation of the earl and of Murray against Soulis became vehement140. The nephew was full of immediate personal revenge. But the father, with arguments similar to those which had suggested themselves to his daughter, calmed the lover’s rage, for Murray now felt that fire as well as a kinsman’s; and reseated himself with repressed, though burning resentment141, to listen to the remainder of her relation.
The quaking conscience of Lady mar did indeed vary her cheeks with a thousand dyes, when, as Helen repeated part of her conversation with Macgregor’s wife, Murray abruptly142 said, “Surely that woman could name the traitor who betrayed us into the hands of our enemies! Did she not hint it?”
Helen cast down her eyes, that even a glance might not overwhelm with insupportable shame the already trembling countess. Lady Mar saw that she was acquainted with her guilt143, and expecting no more mercy than she knew she would show to Helen in the like circumstances, she hastily rose from her chair, internally vowing144 vengeance against her triumphant145 daughter and hatred146 of all mankind. But Helen thought she might have so erred147, from a wife’s alarm for the safety of the husband she professed148 to doat on; and this dutiful daughter determined149 never to accuse her.
While all the furies raged in the breast of the guilty woman, Helen simply answered, “Lord Soulis would be weak as he is vile150, to trust a secret of that kind with a servant;” then hurried on to the relation of subsequent events. The countess breathed again; and almost deceiving herself with the idea that Helen was indeed ignorant of her treachery, listened with emotions of another kind, when she heard of the rescue of her daughter-in-law. She saw Wallace in that brave act! But as Helen, undesignedly to herself, passed over the parts in their conversation which had most interested her, and never named the graces of his person, Lady mar thought, that to have viewed Wallace with so little notice would have been impossible; and therefore was glad of such a double conviction, that he and her daughter had never met, which seemed verified when Helen said that the unknown chief had promised to join his arms with those of Wallace.
Murray had observed Helen while she spoke, with an impression at his heart that made it pause. Something in this interview had whispered to him what he had never dreamed before-that she was dearer to him than fifty thousand cousins. And while the blood flushed and retreated in the complexion151 of Helen, and her downcast eyes refused to show what was passing there, while she hastily ran over the circumstances of her acquaintance with the stranger knight, Murray’s own emotions declared the secret of hers; and with a lip as pale as her own, he said, “But where is this brave man? He cannot have yet joined us, for surely he would have told Wallace or myself that he came from you?”
“I warned him not to do so,” replied she, “for fear that your indignation against my enemies, my dear cousin, might have precipitated152 you into dangers to be incurred153 for our country only.”
“Then, if he had joined us,” replied Murray, rising from his seat, “you will probably soon known who he is. To-morrow morning Sir William Wallace will enter the citadel, attended by his principal knights; and in that gallant company you must doubtless discover the man who had laid such obligations on us all by your preservation154.”
Murray’s feelings told him that glad should he be, if the utterance of that obligation would repay it!
Helen herself knew not how to account for the agitation which shook her whenever she adverted155 to her unknown preserver. At the time of the hermit’s friend (the good lay brother), having brought her to Alloa, when she explained to Lady Ruthven the cause of her strange arrival, she had then told her story with composure, till she mentioned her deliverer; but in that moment, for the first time she felt a confusion which disordered the animation156 with which she described his patriotism157 and his bravery. But it was natural, she thought, that gratitude for a recent benefit should make her heart beat high. It was something like the enthusiasm she had felt for Wallace on the rescue of her father, and she was satisfied. But a few days of quiet at Alloa had recovered her health from the shock it had received in the recent scenes, and she proposed to her aunt to send some trusty messenger to inform the imprisoned158 earl at Dumbarton of her happy refuge; and Lady Ruthven in return had urged the probability that the messenger would be intercepted159, and so her asylum be discovered, saying, “Let it alone, till this knight of yours, by performing his word, calls you to declare his honorable deeds. Till then, Lord Mar, ignorant of your danger, needs no assurance of your safety.”
This casual reference to the knight had then made the tranquilized heart of Helen renew its throbbings, and turning from her aunt with an acquiescing160 reply, she retired to her own apartment to quell161 the unusual and painful blushes she felt burning on her cheeks. Why she should feel thus she could not account, “unless,” said she to herself, “I fear that my suspicion may be guessed at; and should my words or looks betray the royal Bruce to any harm, that moment of undesigned ingratitude162 would be the last of my life.”
This explanation seemed ample to herself. And henceforth avoiding all mention of her preserver in her conversations with Lady Ruthven, she had confined the subject to her own breast; and thinking that she thought of him more by her intention to speak of him less, she wondered not that whenever she was alone his image immediately rose in her mind, his voice seemed to sound in her ears, and even as the summer air wafted163 its soft fragrance164 over her cheek, she would turn as if she felt that breath which had so gently brushed her to repose165. She would then start and sigh, and repeat his words to herself, but all was serene166 in her bosom. For it seemed as if the contemplation of so much loveliness of soul in so noble a form, soothed167 instead of agitated her heart. “What a king will he be?” thought she; “with what transport would the virtuous168 Wallace set the Scottish crown on so noble a brow.”
Such were her meditations169 and feelings, when she was brought a prisoner to Stirling. And when she heard of the victories of Wallace, she could not but think that the brave arm of her knight was there, and that he, with the renowned170 champion of Scotland, would fly, on the receipt of her letter, to Stirling, there to repeat the valiant171 deeds of Dumbarton. The first blast of the Scottish trumpet under the walls found her, as she had said, upon her knees, and kept her there, for hardly with any intermission, with fast and prayer did she kneel before the altar of Heaven-till the voice of Andrew Murray at midnight called her to freedom and to happiness.
Wallace, and perhaps her nameless hero with him, had again conquered! His idea dwelt in her heart and faltered172 on her tongue; and yet, in reciting the narrative of her late sufferings to her father, when she came to the mentioning of the stranger’s conduct to her-with an apprehensive173 embarrassment174 she felt her growing emotions as she drew near the subject; and, hurrying over the event, she could only excuse herself for such new perturbations by supposing that the former treason of Lady Mar now excited her alarm, with fear she should fix it on a new object. Turning cold at an idea so pregnant with horror, she hastily passed from the agitating175 theme to speak of De Valence and the respect with which he had treated her during her imprisonment176. His courtesy had professed to deny nothing to her wishes except her personal liberty and any conference with her parents or aunt. Her father’s life, he declared it was altogether out of his power to grant. He might suspend the sentence, but he could not abrogate177 it.
“Yes,” cried the earl, “though false and inflexible178, I must not accuse him of having been so barbarous in his tyranny as Cressingham. For it was not until De Valence was taken prisoner that Joanna and I were divided. Till then we were lodged in decent apartments, but on that event Cressingham tore us from each other, and threw us into different dungeons179. My sister Janet I never saw since the hour we were separated in the street of Stirling until the awful moment in which we met on the roof of this castle-the moment when I expected to behold her and my wife die before my eyes!”
Helen now learned, for the first time, the base cruelties which had been exercised on her father and his family since the capture of De Valence. She had been exempted180 from sharing them by the fears of Cressingham, who, knowing that the English earl had particular views with regard to her, durst not risk offending him by outraging181 one whom he had declared himself determined to protect.
During part of this conversation, Murray withdrew to bring Lady Ruthven and her son to share the general joy of full domestic reunion. The happy Edwin and his mother having embraced these dear relatives with yet more tender affections yearning182 in their bosoms183, accompanied Murray to the door of the barbican, which contained Lord Ruthven. They entered on the wings of conjugal184 and filial love; but the for once pensive185 Lord Andrew, with a slow and musing186 step, returned into the castle to see that all was safely disposed for the remainder of the night.
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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6
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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7
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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8
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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9
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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10
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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13
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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14
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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15
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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17
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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18
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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19
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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20
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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21
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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22
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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23
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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24
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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25
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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26
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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27
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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28
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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29
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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30
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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31
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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32
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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33
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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34
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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35
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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36
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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37
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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38
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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40
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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41
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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42
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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43
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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44
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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45
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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46
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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47
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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48
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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49
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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50
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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51
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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52
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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53
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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54
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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55
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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56
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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59
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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60
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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61
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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64
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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65
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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66
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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67
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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68
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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69
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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70
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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71
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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72
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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73
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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76
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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77
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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79
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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80
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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81
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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82
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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83
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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84
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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85
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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86
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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87
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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88
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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89
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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90
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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91
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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92
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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93
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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94
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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95
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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96
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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98
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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100
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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101
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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102
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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103
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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104
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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105
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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106
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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107
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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108
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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109
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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110
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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111
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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112
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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113
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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114
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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115
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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116
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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117
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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118
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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119
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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120
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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121
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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122
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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123
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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124
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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125
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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126
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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127
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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128
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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129
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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130
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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134
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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136
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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137
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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138
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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139
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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140
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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142
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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143
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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144
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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151
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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152
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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154
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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161
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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163
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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165
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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166
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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168
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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171
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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173
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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175
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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176
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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177
abrogate
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| v.废止，废除 | |
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178
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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179
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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180
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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182
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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183
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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184
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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185
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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186
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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